A Room of One's Own
"A Room of One's Own" by Virginia Woolf explores the world of female novelists, emphasizing the importance of financial independence and personal space for women to freely express their ideas.
I personally enjoyed a lot her reflexions about both sexes, and how she talks diferently about men and women, and their diferent grade of dificulties in order to make themselves a name in the novelism world.
I also liked a lot her references to some of the most famous and important female autors, with whom without their work and constant dedication, we, women, woudn't be where we are now in the literary world.
I give it 4 stars, because there were moments of confusion and deviation from the main topic, making it challenging to follow at times, although I think we can blame It on the writing style from back then.
Nevertheless, it's a book with valuable reflections that every women should read at least once in their life.
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I've grown pretty fond of how I spend my days as of lately, I've been writing here and there on this website/app, and doom scrolling Pinterest for some inspirational writing posts. The days drift by in a blur, and next thing I know, it's already evening time.
I've also been writing on my stories, but for the most part, I'm on this website/app to share snippets of my life, because I know deep down there are people on here who need encouraging words, despite having had some if not a lot of tragedy in their lives, it's nice to know, in a comforting way, that they are not alone.
We're writers and poets and artist, for fucks sake anyways. We have worlds living in our heads thrashing at our minds to come out and play. But as a child, for most of us like myself, we were told to put it away and silence those voices. No more will we listen to the old and dying of the old world.
Things are changing now, it's our time to be ourselves and to write, and create art. The old world doesn't work for us anymore, as much as we've tried to force it upon ourselves. Today, we change our way of thinking and pursue our creative endeavors.
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Dunt: a poem for a dried up river
Alice Oswald
Very small and damaged and quite dry,
a Roman water nymph made of bone
tries to summon a river out of limestone
very eroded faded
her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down
a Roman water nymph made of bone
tries to summon a river out of limestone
exhausted utterly worn down
a Roman water nymph made of bone
being the last known speaker of her language
she tries to summon a river out of limestone
little distant sound of dry grass try again
a Roman water nymph made of bone
very endangered now
in a largely unintelligible monotone
she tries to summon a river out of limestone
little distant sound as of dry grass try again
exquisite bone figurine with upturned urn
in her passionate self-esteem she smiles looking sideways
she seemingly has no voice but a throat-clearing rustle
as of dry grass try again
she tries leaning
pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn
little slithering sounds as of a rabbit man in full night-gear,
who lies so low in the rickety willowherb
that a fox trots out of the woods
and over his back and away try again
she tries leaning
pouring pure outwardness out of a grey urn
little lapping sounds yes
as of dry grass secretly drinking try again
little lapping sounds yes
as of dry grass secretly drinking try again
Roman bone figurine
year after year in a sealed glass case
having lost the hearing of her surroundings
she struggles to summon a river out of limestone
little shuffling sound as of approaching slippers
year after year in a sealed glass case
a Roman water nymph made of bone
she struggles to summon a river out of limestone
little shuffling sound as of a nearly dried-up woman
not really moving through the fields
having had the gleam taken out of her
to the point where she resembles twilight try again
little shuffling clicking
she opens the door of the church
little distant sounds of shut-away singing try again
little whispering fidgeting of a shut-away congregation
wondering who to pray to
little patter of eyes closing try again
very small and damaged and quite dry
a Roman water nymph made of bone
she pleads she pleads a river out of limestone
little hobbling tripping of a nearly dried-up river
not really moving through the fields,
having had the gleam taken out of it
to the point where it resembles twilight.
little grumbling shivering last-ditch attempt at a river
more nettles than water try again
very speechless very broken old woman
her left arm missing and both legs from the knee down
she tries to summon a river out of limestone
little stoved-in sucked thin
low-burning glint of stones
rough-sleeping and trembling and clinging to its rights
victim of Swindon
puddle midden
slum of over-greened foot-churn and pats
whose crayfish are cheap tool-kits
made of the mud stirred up when a stone's lifted
it's a pitiable likeness of clear running
struggling to keep up with what's already gone
the boat the wheel the sluice gate
the two otters larricking along go on
and they say oh they say
in the days of better rainfall
it would flood through five valleys
there'd be cows and milking stools
washed over the garden walls
and when it froze you could skate for five miles yes go on
little loose end shorthand unrepresented
beautiful disused route to the sea
fish path with nearly no fish in
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I'm not whole somewhere in my life. I've lost the part that I feel. The part that smiles and yet the expression becomes a mask. Behind it is the tragic face of horror, pain, agony, rage, frustration, anxiety, and depression. Yet I've spoken to the angel's, they spoke of celebration and perfection in holiness. I've drunk with the fallen angels. They speak of the free will of imperfections, failure crying for learned lessons, and redemption. I am the one who's most safe amongst the most alone. So I cry not because I'm weak, nor am I a coward, but because you can only take pain for so long until it's too late.
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The souls doomed to drown shall never be weighed,
as they are meant to sink in the deepest of seas, never float away.
No matter how swaying the tides are, they will always be heavy enough to sink, not once gracing the shores.
It depicted a ship crashing into a stormy sea, sinking; This little one is inspired by that scene and a quote from the book I recently read;
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The other day...one of my friends went to a museum and sent me pictures of the paintings and stuff. There was a specific one that caught my eye.
"B E A U T Y I S T E R R O R"
-Henry Winter, The Secret History (Donna Tartt)
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